


weak and powerless

by deadlybride



Series: A Perfect Circle [14]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Post-Episode: s06e09 Clap Your Hands If You Believe, Season/Series 06, Soulless Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 05:16:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10482930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: August 3, 2011. Dean reluctantly stays with a version of his brother.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A Perfect Circle - _Weak and Powerless_ , track two of _Thirteenth Step_

_Little angel, go away, come again some other day_  
_The devil has my ear today, I'll never hear a word you say_  
_Promised I would find a little solace and some peace of mind_  
_Whatever, just as long as I don't feel so—_

Dean’s standing at the motel window, watching the summer night outside. Rain’s coming, a breeze picking up as the clouds roll over the flat, boring landscape. He takes a sip from his beer, lets it dangle against his thigh, and then big hands come and settle on his hips, a broad chest coming to rest against his back. He closes his eyes. “Stop it,” he says.

“Why,” Sam says, soft. Not-Sam, that is. This shell, empty of anything that makes his brother his brother.

Dean’s tired. It’s been—a long, long year. The last few months have felt even longer. “Not interested,” he says, and takes another swallow off his bottle. The wind’s picking up, whistling against the eaves of the long low buildings.

Sam hasn’t moved. “See, I know that’s not quite true,” he says, quiet. His voice is so familiar. Thumbs slip up under Dean’s t-shirt, stroke gently over the bare skin of his waist—that’s familiar, too. “You like it, just the same as you always have. Otherwise, you’d move me yourself.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Dean says, and drains the rest of the beer. Sam releases him long enough to take the bottle out of his hand and Dean lets him, opens his eyes and rests his temple against the window frame. The bedside lamp’s on and he can see their blurry reflection in the dark glass—Sam taller, looming over him, though his face is just a shadow.

A wide soft mouth presses a kiss against the skin behind his ear, where he’s always been sensitive, and he shudders. He presses a hand down over Sam’s, on his hip, and it feels—it feels like Sam, like his brother. He knows that it’s not. He knows that. “We shouldn’t,” he says, but it sounds weak even to him.

Sam snorts, though he kisses Dean again, too, lower, against the side of his neck. “That ship sailed, don’t you think? When I was, what, fourteen?”

Another kiss, sucked soft against the back of his neck, and a hand slips forward, cups the lower curve of his belly, long fingers dipping down to the front of his jeans. “You know what I mean,” Dean says, but it’s gravelly, low, because—because yeah, he doesn’t have much of a leg to stand on. Still. “You’re not—you’re not you.”

“Who am I, then?” Sam says, and then Dean’s being turned around, his shoulders pushed up against the cool glass, and there’s his brother. Still the same goofy hair, still way too tall, still big and muscular and still looking at Dean with those dark, wanting eyes, long fingers still tucking into Dean’s jeans at the back.

Dean watches his face. There’s hunger, there. That’s not fake, he’s pretty sure. He can’t tell if there’s anything behind it—only, he knows there isn’t. His body’s waking up regardless, though, and he wonders if it’s something that he’ll ever escape. Like that dog, in the experiment. His blood and his stupid dick and his heart, all awake and pounding because almost fifteen years’ experience have him trained to respond to his brother. He closes his eyes. Even to this shoddy excuse for a brother, apparently.

Sam sighs. “You didn’t mind two weeks ago,” he says, still speaking quiet and low. This must be his seductive voice.

Two weeks ago he thought—he doesn’t know what he thought. That this was his brother, only that he was sick, or something. That the curious impersonal quality to his eyes, his mouth, to the way he rolled over and out of bed as soon as they’d both finished, was something to do with what had happened to him, in the cage. Dean had run out of Lisa’s house as soon as Sam came for him, he’d thrown himself back into hunting, into Sam and the life, and hadn’t wanted to question it. Anything was worth bearing, to have Sam back.

A thumb presses against his lower lip. He tips his head back against the window and it follows him, rubbing back and forth across his mouth. Firm, but not hurting. “Why are you bothering with me, man?” he says, lips moving against Sam’s skin. He opens his eyes to find Sam watching his mouth, and catches his wrist, pulls his hand away. Sam’s eyes flick up to meet his, and they’re—god. It’s so hard to tell. “Why come back in the first place?”

He gets a frown for that, Sam’s expression going thoughtful. “You’re—” Sam pauses, like he doesn’t know which lie to offer, and Dean pushes away from the window, walks over to the bed. He’s tired. He doesn’t know why he asked.

His arm is caught, though, and before he can move away Sam’s dragging him in close and he’s being kissed, firm and precise, Sam’s mouth on his as familiar as breathing, as fighting. He’s pulled in, big palm cupped over his skull, hand at the small of his back, dragging up his spine as Sam presses his mouth open, and he lets it happen. Sam always liked his back. It feels—it’s good. All those months with Lisa, being normal, being someone else, it might have been what his Sam wanted, what the real Sam made him promise to do, but like this, Sam’s hands gathering up his face, Sam’s tongue in his mouth and Sam’s smell, the feel of his skin, the weight of him—it’s something else. Something to cling to.

He’s pushed, the back of his knees hitting the bed so he goes down, but Sam follows him, pushes his t-shirt up and kisses his stomach, teeth scraping the startled-up arch of his ribs, up over his nipple when Sam drags his shirt even higher, and it feels—he slips his hands into Sam’s hair, curls his fingers in tight and drags him up, and Sam goes, his hands denting the mattress either side of Dean’s head as he lets himself be pulled into a kiss. They’re both still almost fully clothed but Sam settles his weight into the cradle of Dean’s hips just the same and Dean’s thighs pull open for him, his knees spreading. So familiar, even if the look in his eyes isn’t, anymore.

Sam pulls away from his mouth, looking down at him heavy-lidded, just the slightest curl of smug. Dean closes his eyes, traces his fingers down Sam’s neck, his broad shoulders, catches him close around the still-narrow dip of his waist. He dreamed about this. Curled into that other bed, in the bright sunlight, he imagined this body wrapped around him. Dreamed of opening his eyes into a world where Sam was alive, and healthy, and his.

“Do you remember that time in—where were we. Baton Rouge, I think. After that vengeful spirit in the hotel.” Sam grinds his hips down and he’s hard, big and obvious even through their jeans. God, it feels good. Dean drags his knees up, rocks into it, blinks to find Sam propped up higher, watching his face. He’s still—wrong. His eyes are calculating, not soft, but he touches Dean’s face gently anyway. “We got that king bed, remember.”

Dean remembers. When everything was going to hell, the Apocalypse coming no matter what they did, and half the time Dean wanted to just lay down, never get up again. Sam had booked that stupid expensive room and Dean hadn’t been in the mood, not really, had been too heart-sore and aching, but Sam had touched him, had put his mouth under Dean’s ear, coaxing him slow and easy, and then—

This Sam isn’t anything like that Sam. Dean knows that, knows it all too well. “You remember,” Sam says, palm firm on the side of Dean’s face, and yeah, Dean does. He’s the only one on earth who knows what happened that night. Who knows what it meant. It wasn’t an—an occupation, like this is. This Sam probably doesn’t know the difference. His chest hurts, remembering, and he’s just—he’s tired of feeling lonely. He _wants_ , and at this point he’ll accept a shoddy substitute.

“You going to keep talking, or are you going to fuck me?” he says, and Sam frowns for a moment, but then he smirks, triumphant, a so-familiar dimple cutting into his cheek. Dean covers it up with one thumb, and then tugs, and Sam comes back down willingly enough, knocking his mouth open and kissing him deep, perfect. With his eyes closed, with Sam’s skin on his, it’s easier to forget for a while. _I’m sorry_ , he thinks, clear as a gunshot, and arches helplessly up into Sam’s grasping, victorious hands, and takes what he can get.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/158935174689/weak-and-powerless)


End file.
